Dead Old (20 page)

“She’s gunning for me. And I don’t know why.” Bev stared ahead, chewing a thumbnail. It was a minefield. Byford trod carefully.

“She seems a little insecure to me.” Echoes of Frankie there.

“Shame.”

“It can’t be easy.”

Dont
say
being a woman in the police.
“What?”

“Being a woman in the police.”

The sweaty gropes in the locker room. The dyke porn on your computer. The tampons in your drawer. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t smart. But that was the reality.

Shields would have gone through it as well. “Tell me about it.”

“Maybe it’s easier for you.”

“No, it isn’t, guv. I just get on with it.” Anyway, the shit from the neanderthals was sugar-coated compared with the vitriol Shields slung. Ironic, really. “You have to
give as good as you get.”

“You certainly do that.” He smiled but she wasn’t playing. “Maybe that’s it, Bev. Maybe you should hold back a bit.”

“How does that work, then?”

“She’s just arrived at Highgate. It’s her first DI post. She’s finding her feet.”

Bev sniffed. “They’re usually in my teeth.”

“She’s wary of you, Bev.”

Byford was currently uneasy as well. He was out of order discussing a senior officer but Bev deserved a hearing, if not the full picture. “Have you ever thought she could be
jealous?”

More shades of Frankie. Still, the guv’s take would be useful. “Excuse me. I banged my head on the way down.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re gonna have to spell it out, then, guv. ’Cause I don’t know where you’re coming from.”

He couldn’t tell her everything. He couldn’t prove it all. Byford had replayed the scene several times since the DI boards. He wouldn’t have witnessed it at all if he
hadn’t left his phone lying around. He’d found it in the interview room – where he’d also come across Danny Shields. During the lunch break. The table was littered with
appraisal sheets and interview notes. Took the wrong door, she’d said. He had no way of knowing how long she’d been there or how much she’d read, but it would have taken only
minutes to pick up the strengths and weakness of the other candidates; especially Bev’s. She was Shields’s closest rival and Shields was next in.

“You’re a good detective, Bev. You’re young, bright, snapping at her heels.”

“Give me a break, guv. If I was that hot, how come I’m not in her shoes?”

Because in the interview Shields had emphasised teamwork and procedures, derided the sort of officer who acts on initiative. “She’s a good officer, Bev. And she had the
vocabulary.”

“Anyone can talk the talk.”

Not about ethnic minorities. Not as convincingly as Danny Shields. And admit it or not, the police service everywhere was desperate not to be perceived as racist. The Stephen Lawrence inquiry
cast a long shadow. He didn’t believe Shields had deliberately played the race card. She hardly needed to, not with the other aces up her sleeve.

There was another explanation, of course.

“Could just be she doesn’t like you,” Byford offered.

“Thanks, guv. I’m feeling better already.”

He flapped a hand at the smoke. “I’m glad someone is. Come on, let’s get back before I need oxygen.”

The ivory silk camisole was laid out rather fetchingly on the bed. Bev was doing her Cop Idol bit in the shower. She’d segued from
Angels
to
Sympathy for the
Devil.
It was going to be a wicked night. Her water was never wrong. She wrapped a towel round her hair and fashioned another into a toga. The body lotion had cost a small fortune and it was
going on every inch of flesh she could reach. She gazed into the mirror: could you pout and smoulder at the same time? Nah. Looked as if she’d had a stroke. She flashed a smile instead. The
chat with the guv had bucked her up no end. Bright young snapper-at-heels was fine by her.

A shout from below broke into her thoughts. “See you later, Bev.”

“You bet.” Her mum and Sadie were off to see a man about a dog. Literally. Talk about excited. They were like a couple of kids. They’d done their homework since Humph:
contacted the Kennel Club, recced reputable breeders. The puppies were six weeks old. Bev had a feeling it would be love at first sight.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Was that a cackle from Sadie? Bev grinned; much as she loved the old girl, that didn’t give a deal of scope. She slipped into the
camisole. Well, it was almost her size.

19

“It had better be good, Oz.” God. She sounded like her mum.

“I’m really sorry, Bev. I’ll explain when I get there. I’ll grab us a bite to eat.”

Bev had already added the feminine touch of a soft candle or two to Zak’s bachelor pad in Selly Oak. Having slipped into something less comfortable, the camisole being a tad on the tight
side, she was now chomping at the bit. By the sound of it, she’d not be getting her teeth into Khan’s dish of the day. Oz cooked like a dream but there’d be no time now for him to
knock up anything in the kitchen. He was probably hoping she’d say she fancied an Indian. Tough.

“Chinese, preferably. Pizza at a push.” The flat delivery contained more than a food order. How long was he going to be? She wanted to chuck the mobile across the floor, aimed it at
the settee instead. 8.30. She’d give him an hour, then she was off. So much for a night of passion; he couldn’t even get here on time. At least she could have a drink. She’d
brought booze as well as candles. She wandered, chilled Chablis in hand. Zak had left a note on a pin board: make yourselves at home. She sniffed; gift horse in the mouth and all that, but
Zak’s pad was a bit boring: all chunky chintz and Athena prints. Except for the floor. The carpet tiles were black and white; she was beginning to feel like a chess piece.

“Checkmate.” Talking of mates… She’d give Frankie a bell. A girlie whinge about unreliable blokes would pass an hour or six. A recorded voice put the mockers on that.
And the point of a mobile not on, is? She slung the phone settee-wards again.

The telly was a turn-off; the sound system was cool but she wasn’t in the mood for soft music. She’d spotted a pack of playing cards on the side but she hadn’t the patience.
Sod it. She’d nip out for a ciggie. She delved into her bag, frowned as her fingers closed round the edges of a book. Sophia’s journal. Not quite how she imagined a night of passion
panning out. She started to read, smoking forgotten.

I saw them this afternoon. It’s not allowed, of course, but I watched from the walled garden as they parked. I can still smell the rosemary on my dress, still picture
the couple in every detail. Perhaps I hoped they’d be unsuitable, brash and common and stupid. Would that have given me the strength to say no, to send them away? Foolish thought. They were
none of that. She looked like the actress from Brief Encounter. He reminded me of the manager at my father’s bank: portly and pompous in a pin-stripe suit. He cupped her elbow in his hand as
they walked. They exchanged nervous glances and tight smiles.

Maude forwards my post. I shake with shame when I read my parents’ letters. They think I’m a saint. I had to lie. I told them I was nursing a dying friend, a
woman with only months to live. I can tell them exactly when she’ll die – after I’ve given birth. I’ve considered countless times whether to reveal the truth. I can’t
do it. It would hurt them too much.

The pains are coming regularly now. The contractions are two minutes apart. It won’t be long. I won’t cry, however much it hurts. I keep telling myself that if I
endure the physical pain, God will help me cope with the mental agony later. Strange how I long to see the baby’s face.

She’s perfect. Wisps of dark hair feather the tiniest skull I have even seen. She has huge blue eyes that gaze into mine and seem to read my thoughts. I cant decide on
a name. Elizabeth, perhaps? Or Isobel? How could I ever have imagined giving her up?

I couldn’t do it. I’m not strong enough. I was swayed by what was said and afraid of what others would think. It wasn’t for my sake. I must hold on to that
thought. Children need both parents. I want her to have a normal happy life. People can be so cruel to a baby born out of wedlock. I’ve heard the words they use, witnessed the contempt, as if
it’s the child’s fault. I leave here tomorrow and will try to forget everything. That way I may be able to survive it.

I saw them from the window. They’re here to take her. I kiss her head, stroke her face, whisper I love you. Her baby scent lingers in the air. It breaks my heart. Dear
God, let her be happy.

Bev had a crick in her neck and her right foot had gone to sleep; the rest of her was coming round slowly. She rubbed her eyes, couldn’t remember where she was at first.
Oz was sitting opposite. Why the hell hadn’t he woken her? Gone midnight and he was curled up with a good book. She took a closer look. Actually it wasn’t a good book; it was real life.
And it was sad. Judging by the expression on his face, he was near the end.

She yawned and swung her legs round, instantly aware of the camisole’s shortcomings. Apart from which, she was frozen. Oz was on the last page when she returned from the bedroom looking
slightly less like something off page three. She nodded at the book. “And they all lived happily ever after. Not.”

Sophia certainly hadn’t. She’d lived a lie and died a lonely violent death. Bev was sure there was a connection there, was struggling to make it. They’d try to trace what
happened to the kid, of course, but thousands of illegitimate babies were given up for adoption in Sophia’s era. It was a heartbreaking story, a shameful secret, but it was two a penny back
then.

Oz closed the journal. “Amazing.”

So was he. You could do breaststroke in those eyes. She moved across, took the book from him, snuggled close. The arm round her shoulder was good, the peck on her cheek could be improved. OK,
Oz, in your own time.

“I feel sorry for the baby, Bev.” He was still in the past.

“I suppose she did what she thought best.” The thigh-stroking was designed to catapult him to the present. A sort of strangled sound emerged, which was highly encouraging until she
registered it as a snort. Not unlike one of her own.

“Best for who, Bev? The baby or Sophia Carrington?”

She removed the arm, turned to face him. “That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? Imagine having a kid, then giving it up for adoption, never seeing it again.”

He picked up the journal. “I don’t have to imagine. It’s all there in black and white. Lots of pain, loads of angst, woe is me, then hey! Where’s the sink? She washes her
hands of the whole mess, walks away and gets on with her life.” Heated or what? The diatribe left her almost speechless, not that there was a chance to join the debate. “And I’ll
tell you this for sure: there’s no way on God’s earth I’d give my own flesh and blood to strangers.”

“Best hope you don’t get up the duff, then, hadn’t you?” OK, it was childish but he’d asked for it. She knew he was big on family, but that didn’t make him
right. Nothing was ever that black and white. “Come on, Oz. The poor bloody woman made one mistake –”

“Three.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “She had sex with a married man. Failed to take precautions. Had a baby.”

Sexist prig. She could barely get the words out. “It’s a damn sight better than getting rid of it.”

A muscle tensed in his cheek but he kept his voice calm. “Isn’t that exactly what she did?”

The silence was broken by a muffled sound neither recognised at first. She looked round, located the source, dashed over. The mobile was jammed down the back of one of Zak’s chunky
cushions.

“Shit.” Half a dozen missed calls. All from Highgate. One unopened message.

She read the words. “Double shit.”

20

Oz drove. The nine-minute journey took five. There was a uniform on the door and a cluster of gawkers in the street.

“Better late than never.” DI Shields looked up from her notes. A quick glance suggested she’d been called out in a rush. No make-up, hair could do with a comb, the outfit had
been thrown together. Not exactly catwalk cool; more cop under pressure.

Bev ignored the crack, concentrated on not throwing up. The stench in the small space was horrendous; it filled every inch. Her stomach lurched; the retching made her eyes water. It was partly
the rank odour, partly the pitiful sight. Oz succumbed to both and headed outside for air.

The terraced house in Kings Heath was in the street next to the first victim’s, though Bev reckoned Iris Collins would turn in her grave at the state of this place. It was a dive:
dirt-poor and dirty; bare floorboards, paper hanging off the walls, a one-bar electric fire, not switched on. Thank God.

“What have we got?” Bev asked. She nodded at a couple of SOCOs who were waiting for a green light from Shields.

“Dolly Machin. Seventy-six. Widow. Man next door hadn’t seen anything of her for a while.”

Bev held a tissue under her nose and got down on one knee. “How long’s a while?”

Shields shrugged. “He admits to three weeks. Darren New’s there now, trying to get a firmer fix. But by the look of that, it’ll be a damn sight longer.”

Bev tightened her lips.
That
was an old woman who’d once been a little girl, somebody’s daughter, maybe somebody’s mother. She’d lived in appalling poverty and
died in her own waste with a colony of hungry rats for company.

She rose, regretted buying, let alone wearing, the camisole. “I’m going to have a quick look round.”

Shields didn’t object. Bev couldn’t put her finger on it but there was something not quite right about the DI. It went deeper than the new look. She hadn’t exactly deferred to
Bev but she’d seemed relieved to have her there, anxious almost for her input. Maybe thinking on her feet wasn’t the DI’s forte? Mind, if she saw this as her first big test as
lead detective, that’d be a shame. Bev wasn’t convinced they even had a case.

The recce confirmed her suspicions. The kitchen looked as if it had been fitted in the fifties and not touched since. Other rooms were virtually empty. Maybe Dolly Machin had sold the lot; maybe
there’d been nothing to sell. Bev went back to check the bin and ran her hands under the tap before joining Shields in the front room. Oz had returned, looking a tad shame-faced. No reason.
Everyone had been there, done that, got sick on the T-shirt.